Hysteria
by Tom Beaumont
Summary: The first new chapter in my O'Stevens anthology in years... Rated M.
1. Women

**Hysteria**

_**Tom Sez:** My train of thought is always running, even though its got a spotty performance record and tends to jump tracks on a whim. (And I'll bet you're out there thinking:_ You? No! Yoooouuu?! Nooooo!! _Sarcasm detected, noted, catalogued for future reference.) S' anyway, I was working on the final chapter of_ **One Thing** _(yep, the big finish - lotsa fun, and none of y'all will go away disappointed - trust me), and I had stopped to find some music to keep my juices flowing. After perusing my extensive - damn near encyclopedic, I tells ya - CD collection, the engineer of my creative locomotive decided to put on some speed and take a curve way too fast, hoping to catch some air._

_At least I assume that's what happened._

_After flipping that ten ton diesel horse a few dozen times and landing it in a wheat field somewhere in Kansas, the engineer noticed the CD that was right in front of me. And with his last breath, he choked into my mind's ear, "How about an anthology? The album title is the collection title, the song titles inspire the stories."_

_And I'm thinking,_ Yeah, that could be interesting_. A collection of one-shots. Kinda like one of my favorite pieces on this site -_ **Predictable**_, by Rogue Tramp. 'Cept those are drabbles. And I can't drabble. 'Cause I'm a rambler. A shambler. An amblin' gambler. I spins me yarns by the yards._

_A hundred words? I can't write a danged author's note in a hundred words. Obviously._

_So I picked a CD at random, and started bringing it together, word count be dadgummed, one title at a time. (Some are - even at this early date - more -_** ahem**_ - racy than others. But more on that down the line.) I offer my hackery to you, O Kind Reader, and hope that you will find much enjoyment within..._

_**Er-claim-dis-ay:** I have no connection to _Grey's._ This is why my parents have PhotoShopped me out of all family portraiture. Or so they say._

* * *

**Women**

George found himself staring at the stacked blonde who was across the room, holding a plastic cup of that God-awful watered-down punch. She'd heard something funny in her conversation, he supposed, because her head went back, taking that spun gold hair with it, and her deep, hearty laugh found its way to his ears.

There were other attractive women at the mixer. There was a Cristina something-or-other who had dark curly hair and looked a little dangerous, because her gaze was intense and focused and scared him more than a little. On the other end of the spectrum, that Meredith Grey person, the one with the smoky eyes and strappy sandals, seemed quiet and interesting and maybe just his type. But it was that blonde - oh, that blonde - she made him feel all together inadequate. Like he wanted to go home and change into something sharper - a tux, maybe.

And cut his hair.

And lose twenty pounds.

And grow three inches.

_Heightwise_, he told his dirty mind. _Heightwise._

He realized the blonde had crossed the room and was standing across from him at the punch bowl. _Probably while you were talking to me,_ his dirty mind snickered. And the distance and soft lighting hadn't smoothed out her complexion or diffused certain figure flaws - fact was, she was even hotter up close. So hot that, indeed, he could feel a BB of sweat forming at his hairline.

"Some party," she said.

"Mm," he managed.

"I'm Isobel Stevens," she said, extending her perfectly manicured hand. "Surgical intern."

"Hi," he choked.

"And you are - " she said, fishing for a name.

"George. I'm George." He was blanking on his last name, mainly because his dirty mind was already deeply spinning complex scenarios for him and her and him'n'her. Then like a bolt from the blue: "O'Malley. Yeah. George O'Malley."

She gave him a wide, bright smile and extended a hand. "George. My friends call me Izzie."

Even his dirty mind was speechless as they made contact. Warmth blossomed through him, and he knew - really knew - that if this moment would be the limit of their relationship, it would have been enough for him. More than enough.

But then she stayed. All through the mixer, through every fleeting conversation with attendings and residents, through every fellow intern's introduction and handshake. She stood firm on the ground next to him. Laughed at his jokes. Fiddled with his tie. Asked him about everything under the sun, and listened to his answers.

It amazed him. Simply amazed him.

As the evening drew towards the night and the crowd thinned out, she looked him square in the eye. "Walk me to my car?" she asked.

"Yeah," he replied, trying not to show that bit of joy that she'd just given him, like an early Christmas present that he didn't have to ask permission to open.

In the open air of the parking lot, next to a maroon Delta 88 that Izzie kept giggling about - _"My very first car, and hopefully not my last," she said_ - she gave him another bright smile, mixed with a tinge of regret. "I'd ask you if you'd like to get a drink, but tomorrow morning is coming up fast, plus I've gotta call my boyfriend - "

Of course, he thought, mentally kicking himself as the joy flowed out of him like a runny egg yolk. Why wouldn't she have a boyfriend? Lucky bastard. Probably a tall, handsome fella who makes a million bucks a day saving only the most adorable endangered species. A guy who runs triathlons. Writes symphonies. Owns a horse that he himself tamed by staring it down.

But it wasn't as if he couldn't have seen it coming. He was almost always friend material. She'll like you, but not like you-like you. That was especially true with the gorgeous, funny, super-sharp women. Especially them.

" - so maybe after our first shift gets over?" she finished.

George gave her a smile that he hoped looked genuine. "Sure. That'd be great."

"Okay." She stuck out her hand again. "See you around the hospital, George O'Malley."

"Yeah," he said, taking it, wanting to enjoy her presence for just an instant longer. "Catch you tomorrow, Isobel Stevens."

She tilted her head. "George. Call me Izzie."

"Right," he said, holding his smile as best he could. "Your friends call you that."

"Now you've got it," she said with that little laugh of hers, like she'd just been tickled, then she slipped into her car and drove away as he stood alone under a lamppost.

"I'm her friend," George said out loud to the cool night air, and as he tasted the words, he decided that being Isobel's - Izzie's - friend wasn't going to be such a bad thing. After all, at least he'd be able to be around her occasionally. Talk to her. Catch a smile. And maybe, at the end of the world, if they were the last people on Earth...

Then he wondered if Meredith Grey was busy that night.

* * *

_**More To Come...**_


	2. Rocket

**Hysteria**

_**Tom Sez:**_ _Okay. For all those who might have come in late, a little exposition before the show..._

_I started this series last year - yep, 2007 - with the intention of making something that would be (a) fun, (b) quick, and (c) something that would be done - DONE - by the end of the summer. The story you're about to read was flowing out of me, and I had about four others in progress, and I was unstoppable._

_And then..._

_...well, then, I got sidetracked..._

_(cough)_

_Fast forward to last month when I finally got back to where I left off, and honestly, I didn't know what to do. The story had not advanced or evolved in my imagination - it had suffered from my lack of attention, from my being sidetracked.  
_

_I sat and stared at it occasionally for the last few weeks, hoping I'd find the inspiration I needed to finally make something out of it._

_And then I saw it. The thing. The thing that made the plot thread come together. It was practically jumping up and down and waving at me._

_So I grabbed hold of it, and got down to business._

_The result follows..._

_**Rocket  
**_

It was nine o'clock and George still hadn't popped out of his rabbit hole. This was getting ridiculous to Izzie. She had been up since six. Showered much quicker than usual. Brushed her teeth, combed her hair. Left the house and came back. And here she was at nine - nine-oh-two, actually - in the morning, waiting at his bedroom door. And why? Because he promised her he'd be up by now. He promised he'd look at her baby this morning. That new-to-her '99 midnight blue Civic she'd brought home yesterday was waiting out front to go through his promised 'sixty-one point inspection'. Still.

Finally, she could stand no more. She flung open the unlocked door and sprung into his quarters.

And there he was. Still asleep, curled up in his blankets like a puppy. For a moment, the word** adorable **pinged through her mind, and then she remembered that she was slightly peeved at him. So she took two steps, then two more up, and that put her standing on his bed, towering over him.

Then she began to jump. The creaky bed frame holding the squeaky mattress and box spring reacted as should have been expected.

George awoke with a start. And bedhead. "Izzie?!"

At that, Izzie stopped. "Good morning, sunshine!"

"What - " he tried to say, his voice thick with sleep.

"You said you were going to be up before nine," she said. "You promised, in fact."

George craned his neck to see his alarm clock. "Oh, for Pete's sake...it's nine-oh-three."

"Last time I checked, nine-oh-three was not before nine," she replied, a hint of triumph in her voice. "It was, in fact, three minutes after nine. That's a full one hundred eighty seconds past the nine o'clock hour."

"Izzie..." he tried to protest.

"Get up, sleepyhead. Otherwise, I start jumping again, and I don't think the frame's gonna want too much more of that."

"Fine," he grumbled. "Just get off the bed. And get outta my room."

"You're not going back to sleep, are you?"

"What answer gets you to leave?" George whined.

Izzie bent her knees into a half-crouch. "You know what I like about your bed? It's springy!"

George shifted in his blankets. "Yes, yes, okay! I'm getting up, I'm not going back to sleep, just get out!"

And she did. She walked all the way to her previous post outside his door. A few moments later, a rumpled George shuffled out in a T-shirt and boxers. He stopped, shot Izzie a sneer, then headed down the hall to the bathroom. As soon as he closed the door, she took up a new post, just outside that door.

"Are you mad at me?" Izzie asked.

Silence.

"'Cause you promised, you know."

There was a squeal of hot water flowing through the pipes. She walked to the kitchen to freshen her coffee.

Meredith was there, engrossed in her Rice Krispies. "I thought you two were supposed to be gone by now."

"No," Izzie moaned. She grabbed a granola bar. "George overslept."

"It's a day off. People oversleep on days off." Meredith closed her mouth around a spoonful of cereal.

"Yeah, but he promised he'd look at my car. I have places to go, people to see."

"A hot date tonight..." Meredith teased.

"Yes," Izzie replied. "A very hot date. So I have a hair appointment, and I have to pick up my dry cleaning, and then I have to get home so I can put myself together. So George checking out my car is...well, it's important. And his word has to be his bond, right?"

Meredith looked up. "So there was a stenographer and a notary on hand?"

Izzie frowned. "You know what I mean."

"Unfortunately."

"Fine. Be that way. See if I ever give you a ride in my baby." Izzie stuck out her tongue and headed back to her post.

When she returned, the bathroom door was still closed, and the pipes were still whining.

"Nine twenty-six, George," she said.

Silence.

"You fall asleep in there now?" Izzie laughed.

"Nope," George's voice in her ear. His breath tickled a little. "I'm thinking Meredith's latest guest might have."

She looked over at George, his still-wet hair obviously combed in a hurry. "Another one?" Izzie asked.

"Yep," he replied. "Wandered in while I was drying off."

"Got an eyeful of you, huh?"

"Nope. But I wasn't so lucky." He shuddered, then glanced at her mug. "Is there more coffee?"

"About half a cup, maybe," Izzie said.

George blew out the tail-end of a yawn. "Well, we're going driving anyway. Might as well stop at Starbucks, spend more of the money I don't have." He held out an open hand to her.

Izzie's eyes narrowed at him.

He merely grinned. "Not to worry, Iz. I don't expect you to hold my hand." He looked at the keys in her hand. "But I kinda need to drive. All part of the famed O'Malley inspection service."

* * *

The shopping plaza parking lot had begun to fill up as the duo came out of their nearest Starbucks, thermal cups in hand. As they approached the car, George stopped for a moment, and squinted a little in the hazy early morning sunlight. His gaze was somewhere underneath the vehicle, Izzie noticed.

"Do you see something?" Izzie asked.

"A spot on the concrete," he replied, then made a beeline for it.

Izzie took a swig of coffee and studied George as he took off. He was surprisingly cute to her now, in a zip-front navy sweatshirt and faded blue jeans that – and she couldn't believe her mind went this direction, but it did – fit him quite nicely. He took a knee next to the front driver's side tire, and she couldn't help see a flash of his lower back as his sweatshirt and white cotton tee rode up just a bit. The exposed flesh looked soft – not flabby, but a little round, like the rest of him. His body looked **_comfortable_**, that was it. Something that, if you were snuggled close to it, would be warm and welcoming and receptive and responsive – **_and what in the world was she thinking?_**

She tried to turn, but he caught her looking. "What?" he asked, standing up and tugging his shirts down.

"Nothing," she said, hiding her eyes from him. "Just wondering about the spot."

"Oh," he replied absently. "It's nothing. I thought the radiator might be leaking, but it's not coolant, so..."

"Hm," Izzie said.

"Did, however, notice that your tires are kinda light on tread," he said, fishing the keys from his pocket and pressing them into her hand.

Even with the metal teeth poking into her palm, the way his hand cupped hers was tender. "I'll get new ones," Izzie said, a bit startled by how nice his grip felt.

George shook his head and let go. "Well, don't do it now. That's a three-hundred dollar investment - minimum - and you've got a good ten thousand miles before you'll need to change 'em. Just don't go peeling out at intersections and you oughta be okay."

As he continued his path around the car, she found herself following him. "How do you know all this stuff? I've known car guys and - no offense - you don't look like one."

George snorted. "I'm not." He looked back at her, and with a little shrug, seemed to decide that it was safe to share with her. "When I hit eleven years old, if I wanted to be able to talk about anything with my dad or my brothers, I had to prime the pump, so to speak. And that involved one of two things - cars or sports." He smiled a little. "With sports, it was kinda easy. I started memorizing stats and percentages and win-loss records, so if I needed to, I could pull one out." He smoothed his hand over some scratches on the rear fender. "Cars? That took a little longer. I'd go through magazines and read test-drive results, but they might as well have been written in Chinese." Something caught his attention for a moment inside the wheel well, and he reached an arm around the tire. "I tried hanging around Dad's garage while he'd be working on something, but Ronnie or Jerry, they'd tease me or bait me or do whatever they had to do to crowd me out." He shrugged. "I kinda gave up."

"Gave up?" Izzie asked, crossing her arms. "So how'd you learn?"

"When I was sixteen, I bought this - this rust-bucket that resembled a 1985 Caprice station wagon. For school, and whatever else, you know?" George eyeballed the spot he'd been fingering, then chuckled, and moved on. "Cost me six hundred bucks cash, and ran great…for exactly three days." He shook his head at the memory. "Then my dad spent hours and hours fixing it. It'd run for a while, break down at the worst times. And he'd always come out and help me get it home. At first, Mom had to make me sit out in the garage with him - 'he's fixing your car, it's the least you can do,' she'd say. 'Cause I felt - useless - out there. But I went. And I'd ask a bunch of stupid questions, and he'd actually be patient enough to answer 'em." George's voice was so warm now, he was practically aglow. "Didn't take too long for her to stop having to tell me to go help him; I'd go out there on my own."

Izzie felt a plume of joy in her stomach in response to his tone. It was a strong enough sensation that she couldn't keep from smiling. "That's nice," she said.

"Yeah, it is," George replied, the memories of time with his father still obviously in the forefront of his mind. "I mean, I'm not much of a mechanic, but I know when something doesn't fit right or feel right."

Izzie leaned against the door. "So how about my car? Does it, you know, feel right?"

George rose to his feet again, apparently not realizing that his front would brush against her front – which it did – and that they would be nose-to-nose – which they were. His eyes were meeting hers, and his cheeks were reddening just a hair. "Well, it's – it's – " He bit into his upper lip a little, which twitched in response. "It's a good car," he stammered. "Just – you know – keep an eye on those tires."

She could feel this kind of soft heat building between them, reflecting how his body was touching her body. Her nerves were awake and alert under her layers of cotton clothing, but not aggressive – they were hanging back, waiting for something to happen. The word **adorable** came back to her brain, and in an instant she was thinking about his cheeks and his eyes and his lips and how it must feel to kiss them. But then he said, "Um. Don't you have a hair – thing – to do?"

Izzie took a step back from George, disconnecting her energy from his. She felt herself slump a little, and she could've sworn he lost a little height, too. "Yeah," she said, and pretended to look at her watch. "Veronica gets cranky if I'm late," she added, digging into her brain to find something to say. "A cranky hairstylist means a cranky hairstyle."

"Well, you don't want that," he replied. "Especially since you've got a hot date tonight."

"Yeah," Izzie said, searching her brain for her earlier mindset, and not finding it. "A very hot date."

* * *

George glanced over at Meredith, sitting across the kitchen table from him, and shaking the Yahtzee cup with the mindset of a person whose life depended on rolling a pair of twos, when his cell phone buzzed. "Whoever it is," Meredith said, "tell them that they're going to have to wait. I'm about to beat you for the first time ever, and then I'm going to gloat, and you don't want whoever it is to know what a sore winner I am."

George laughed. "Just roll the bloody dice," he said, flipping open his cell.

"Hey, George," he heard Izzie say.

"Hi," he replied. "Meredith's trying like a maniac to beat me at Yahtzee, so make it quick."

Her voice was a frown. "My car's dead."

George's eyebrows furrowed. "Dead? What?"

"Near the Bridge Street exit. It jerked, it died, it won't start."

"Dammit." George's tone made Meredith set the shaker on the table.

"And I've been here for about forty-five minutes, waiting for a tow truck."

"Forty-five – do you need us to come get you?"

"If you could," she replied.

"No problem at all," George said. He looked at Meredith, who was already grabbing a light jacket and her handbag. He found his feet and started heading for the door with her. "Aw, Iz, I'm sorry," he said.

"This is not your fault," she said.

He sighed. "I know, but I was there this morning, checking everything…"

"George," Meredith commanded. "What's dead?"

"Izzie's car," George said. "Tell me again. What happened?"

* * *

"Timing belt," the tow truck driver said, as Izzie, in her skirt and high heels, watched him raise the front end of the Civic off the ground, the winch whining. "That'd be my guess, way you describe what happened, miss." He scratched his head, which made him have to adjust his baseball cap. "It's one of those things you can't see and can't predict. But when it goes, it goes." The driver looked over at George, who had managed to get there at the same time, and was grimacing at the sight of the car on the hook. "So don't kick yourself over it."

George looked at the man. "I know. But she has a date tonight."

"**_Had_**," Izzie replied. "**_Had_** a date. Now I just wanna go home."

"You sure?" George said. "You still look nice. The hair's - you obviously didn't make Veronica cranky."

That made Izzie giggle. She looked up at his eyes, which radiated kindness, even under the hard street light. Again the word **adorable** popped up, but she didn't try to shoo it away, because it was the right word.

The growl of the truck driver's voice broke through. "Did you have any particular garage you wanted to take it to?" he asked.

George smiled. "Yeah. My dad's."

The driver eyed him suspiciously. "Is it a business or a private residence?"

"Residence," George replied. "I'll just call him and tell him we're on the way."

The driver was still unsure. "That okay with you, miss?"

Izzie grinned. "Only if I can come along," she said.

George blinked at her bright expression, then looked over at the truck driver, who shrugged as if to say **_your call, buddy-boy_**, just before he climbed into the cab. "Okay," George said, and added, "But don't blame me if you get bored," as he parked himself on the bench seat.

"I'll take my chances," Izzie replied, climbing into the tow truck's cab, her body crushing into George's. And as they drove into the night, her nerve endings seemed to find his, even through the layers of clothes. Every once and a while, she thought he would look over at her with an expression that wasn't simply friendly concern, but had a little more joy in it. It was then she decided that she'd been right after all. Being this close to George O'Malley _**was**_ quite comfortable.

_**More coming, I promise...**_


	3. Animal

**O Kind Readers:** _Y'know, someday - probably many, many years from now - I may actually finish this whole _**Hysteria**_ thing. On that day, I am sure that there will be parades and parties and all manner of joyous celebration pouring forth from all corners of the globe.  
_

_Okay, so there won't be any of that._

_But I should finish this anyway, on the off chance..._

**_

* * *

Hysteria  
_**

**Chapter 3: Animal**

George felt daylight stabbing him in the eye as he stirred. A noxious bubble rose through him and exited his throat as a long, sloppy belch. His lips curled in disgust as the foul cloud assaulted his taste buds. Then his stomach gurgled and fizzed. His insides were alternatively mocking then rebuking him. And he had only the vaguest recollection as to why. Strangely though, that was enough.

"Ohhh," George groaned. He noticed the lump on the mattress next to him, and the recognition of who was there took its sweet time dawning. Cristina had sacked out next to him, fully clothed, curled into a tight fetal position.

"_I'm sleepy," she'd mumbled, before her faculties went night-night, and she lapsed onto his mattress. He'd tapped her with his foot a couple times, then elected to forget about her._

He listened to her nasal whistle for a moment, then himself made a kind of unnamable sound that wasn't from a place he recognized within his own body.

His door swung open, and Meredith was on the other side, holding a coffee cup about as well as could be expected. Her hair was a mess, her clothes were mussed and wrinkled…

_Were those the same clothes from last night?_

…and she'd need a skycap to check those bags under her eyes, he found himself snarking. She looked flat-out awful in the harsh light of day.

_Awful was an understatement. Half-dead, maybe?_

"At least I'm vertical, O'Malley," his roommate groaned.

_Had she gained the ability to read minds overnight?_ "Whaaaa?" he asked in a pitch that ended in a sort of low whine.

"You heard me," she replied. "Time to get up, get yourself together. We've got a house to clean."

George let out a slow protest croak. Meredith was obviously unmoved, since she turned and shuffled away. He took another long breath, then rolled out of bed, thinking of nasty things to say, but not having the energy the mutter them.

After a few turns under the shower head (lather, rinse, repeat – and quick, 'cause the water tended to turn to ice cubes if you were lackadaisical during any of the steps), a double dose of Colgate Total (which effectively finished off the tube), and a couple of antacid tablets (the nitty-gritty cherry-esque kind) crunched and swallowed, George was as ready for the day as he could be.

And then he met Izzie at the bottom of the stairs. She was glowing with the excitement of a woman in her element. Peppy. Wired. And her scent was a cocktail of lemony freshness and Scrubbing Bubbles and country meadows and pine needles and spring rain.

"Good morning, George!" she cried, thrusting a broom and dustpan into his hands. "You're just in time to sweep **and** mop the kitchen floor!"

"Ohhhh," he replied.

Izzie found his bloodshot eyes with her clear ones. "You don't look good," she said, tousling the wet mop of hair on his head, which he didn't enjoy at all. "Poor Georgie. Maybe some breakfast would help. Soft, runny eggs maybe…"

"No," George moaned. "Don't even bring up food." His cheeks greened a bit. "Bad choice of words."

"You're telling me," Izzie said, as her smile morphed to a frown. Her tone chilled. "Puke on your own time, O'Malley. This place is a pigsty. And I refuse to live in a pigsty."

As she backpedaled away, and reversed her attitude back to cheery, Meredith appeared at George's elbow. "She's mad at you," she muttered.

"What?" George sputtered. "Why?"

"You ignored her last night."

"Ignored her? How?"

"How? Every time she came up to you, you'd walk away."

"What? Me? When?" he sputtered in protest.

Somehow, his protestations brought up memories. Parts of memories, anyway.

Heck, not even parts. Chunks, really. Chunks of memories that didn't remotely fit together. No order, no theme.

Nice smile.

._..if you like makin' love at midnight..._

Wrong time, wrong place.

"Outta the way, George," he heard Cristina grunt into his ear.

"What?"

"You're standing between me and the coffee. You will lose."

"Okay, that's two. I'll give you those because my head hurts, and that means maybe – just maybe – you didn't really say them. Say anything else to me right now about what happened or you did or I did or whatever last night and I'll beat you within an inch of your life."

A few off-key notes pinged around George's brain. Familiar ones. He winced. "Did I sing last night?"

"You?" Cristina muttered. "No."

"No?"

"No," she affirmed. "You did not sing."

George wanted to accept the statement and move on, but as the notes pinged louder, he just couldn't. "You're toying with me, aren't you?"

"Why would I do that?" Cristina said, giving him a good five-count to relax before she took a breath, and let loose. "If you like pina coladas…and gettin' caught in the rain – "

"Oh, God…" George grabbed his forehead. He felt himself really enjoying his turn at the karaoke machine.

_...if you like makin' love at midnight...in the duuuuunes of the cape..._

"It was less than good," she said. "But at least it was somewhat appropriate." Cristina poured herself a hot black coffee, then started for the back door. "And the girl you were singing to...trouble, George."

"Wait, Cristina," George said. "What girl?"

Izzie's voice suddenly materialized in his ear, and he felt a broom handle tap him on the shoulder. "Get to work, O'Malley," she growled.

_**More to come...**_


End file.
